Shaken
by DarkSlayer84
Summary: The original meeting of Mileena and Baraka. Short, sweet, and generally idealized. Only Puritans will be offended...


_**Shaken**_

DarkSlayer84

It was in the Armory that I met him for the first time.

I snuck down there often, while the rest of the castle slumbered. It was the only time I was guaranteed any peace.

Too much of palace life is cold, and damp to boot. Here it was dry, heat shimmering off the steel in waves. It made the air ripple and dance. I felt strangely at home, safe and warm, like a snake in the sand.

There was metal everywhere. Metal fashioned as weapons, intricate bronzework on the wall, and brazier-torches in grim iron fastenings, holding up the ceiling.

It was the glowing stuff in the sluice that fascinated me, the metal waiting for a form. Steel waiting for a shape. As always, I had to get closer. A running leap put me on the edge of the press. I was blissfully alone, separated from the empty room around me by the living, gently bubbling metal. I sat and watched it. My feet made harsh black outlines against the gleaming steel. It was blinding and pure, dross coming to the top in darker puddles. It burned away as I watched, sparking into nothing and leaving only purity behind. And the heat--the heat was overwhelming, a bewitching intoxicant. I half wanted to stand up and leap in, to dive off the edge and be part of the flood.

"Feels good, doesn't it?" The intruder's voice was rough and male, and it was not one I knew.

I was so startled I almost fell in.

Thank Elders I can teleport; I materialized on solid ground and ducked behind one of the columns.

"Meant nothin' by it," he said casually, glancing about in confusion.

"Show yourself!" I barked, staying hidden and drawing my weapons.

He stepped obligingly into my field of vision. Not that I could see him very well. My eyes were still dazzled by the burning metal--but I wasn't going to let him know that. Against the purple-yellow chaos of afterimages, I could make out his basic outline--broad, rather than tall, if a little taller than me, and solid. The fighting odds were in his favor. I would have to take him by surprise.

"What's your business here?" I asked, keeping to the shadows, stalking toward him.

"Same as yours," he answered, still searching the shadows. For a moment he looked straight at me. My heart stopped, but he hadn't seen me after all. He kept walking. Right into my trap. "The--warmth." He frowned a little. "It's damn cold up there."

My eyes were adjusting, and the closer he moved, the better I could see him. He had high, pointed ears and the telltale gleam of metal in his face.

There was only one mutant on the tournament roster that I knew of, besides myself.

"Congratulations on your recent--" it was impolite to call it a promotion, "--success, General Baraka."

He smiled into the shadows, blankly.

"Formality will get you everywhere, Miss--?" he was fishing for my name. I decided to let him have it.

"You may call me Mileena," said I, stepping into view.

He startled, then covered his surprise by bowing at the waist.

"Deepest apologies, Highness," he assured me.

"Am I so fearsome?" I asked, amused--there was no need of propriety, here. The nonsense and titles and postures of the upper world were pointless with no one around to see them, or care. "And for Elder's sakes, stand up!"

He smirked, then. He fought it a moment more and soon was grinning outright.

"By your command," he said.

It hit me with a warm shock that I was grinning right back.

"Shouldn't we--what it's called--shake hands?" he wanted to know.

"Very well." I moved to do so, then remembered my weapons.

"Not needing those, I'm thinking," he said. I wasn't sure whether he was mocking me.

"Perhaps not." I jammed my sai into my boots, and extended my hand.

He took it with unexpected gentility. His grasp was warm, almost feverish. A slight smile played at the edges of his lips as he turned my hand over, slowly, and gently licked the knuckles--his version of a kiss.

My mind went blank. I knew that I should, that I _must_ pull away, but all that was going through my head was how incredible he felt. Even through the glove. Hot and wet and rough against the back of my hand.

Not good.

The hairs on my arm stood up and all but danced. I wondered for a moment if that kiss of his would travel all the way up my arm to my naked shoulder. I wondered if I should allow him to kiss me. For the first time in more than five hundred years, I was tempted to show a man my true face.

_Definitely_ not good.

At last I stepped back--he let me go. I didn't move to slap him; I didn't really want to, which was proof enough that I wasn't thinking straight.

"Sorry," he murmured. He wasn't. Any more than I was.

I took another step back--backpedaling. In the palace, the walls themselves did father's spying. He would know what had transpired here. Aboveground, in the cold and the light and the morning, I would have to answer for my behavior. I resolved not to regret it.

"That," I breathed, trembling, "is _not_ how you shake hands."

Baraka really did smile then, and it was wide and rakish and utterly delighted.

"I know."

-END-


End file.
